Disclaimer: If you are an adult who believes in Santa please turn away now. Save yourself. Also…foul language.
I was barely three years old. I hear my mama from downstairs yell up to me – “Tam! Come down here and answer the door!”
It was nighttime. It was dark. There was a room full of adults downstairs. Why do I have to answer the door?!
I hobble down the stairs in my cute little pink footy-pajamas. One stair at a time. My short little 3-year old legs carefully hit every single step, holding tight to the railing all the way down.
Eight minutes later I make it to the bottom of the stairs where they met the front door. My mama and all the Uncles, Aunts, cousins, and guests are standing nearby in the living room.
Open the door, Tam! My mama says.
My eyes open wide, my hand reaches up toward the front-door knob, I turn it and pull it toward me.
Black boots. They’re the first thing I see. I slowly lift my head and eyes up. Red pants. Big belly. White beard.
I begin jumping up and down! I scream! I laugh! I cry!
I hear my family and friends behind me Ooo and Ahh. They clap. They laugh. So much excitement in the room.
Then my mama shouts from behind me…Dammit, John! Your beard is crooked. Asshole.
Santa’s beard isn’t real???
My dads name is John.
Sorry for the heartbreak, friends…